


Outbound

by bauer



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Intercrural Sex, M/M, Public Humiliation, Public Sex, Revenge Sex, Verbal Humiliation, chikan- battle of comm ave version
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 11:31:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6077724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauer/pseuds/bauer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rough ‘em up, rough ‘em up, BC sucks!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Outbound

**Author's Note:**

> Writes shitty post-Beanpot porn, gets an English degree from BC. 
> 
> This takes place in an AU where these guys either don't play D1 hockey or where the women's teams are the one's taken seriously enough to play in TD Garden. Sorry, Sean, you're way nicer than this fic would have people assume.
> 
> Please heed the warnings, tell me if I missed one. Or if I make more stupid typos, Jesus.

Thatcher doesn’t know how he got separated from the BC convocation. He probably should have just taken an Uber, or followed the crowd, but he just really wanted to prove the stereotype wrong. He  _ totally _ knew how to work the T. It really wasn’t that complicated. Shouldn’t be, anyway.

He still may have gotten a bit lost. Possibly tried to switch more times than necessary, may have gotten his directions confused once. It’s fine, he gets on the right line eventually. Well, kinda. He thinks technically he was supposed to get on the C line, for whatever reason, but he got excited when a train labeled BOSTON COLLEGE showed up. They all go to the same place, more or less. 

Then he realizes the car he got on is packed and very… scarlet. Drunk, peeved, and scarlet. He’s gotten a few sideways glances for wearing Kings stuff before, but that wasn’t anything like the wave of animosity that hit entering that car.

Thatcher tries to make himself small, zips up his jacket over his BC jersey and tucks himself into a corner, but, well, he’s Thatcher-sized and they’ve already seen him. 

He gets a few elbows, a few jolts that can’t just be written off by how crowded it is. 

He’s up against the wall of the train, gripping the support beam for dear life, when a voice behind him says, “Surprised the nuns let you out this late.” Thatcher glances behind him. First thing he sees is the Terrier’s Hockey beanie, unsurprisingly. The guy’s about the same size as Thatcher, a little shorter and a little wider. Pink cheeks. Dark hair, glassy blue eyes, a very symmetrical face; handsome. 

He’s also standing close, really close, and Thatcher would step back if he could. 

“Ah, well, you know. They make exceptions on special occasions,” Thatcher jokes, because after three years you get used to trash talking drunks. 

He laughs, once, dry, an acknowledgment. “Ha. What’s your name?”

“Thatch-cher.” He stumbles in the middle, when it occurs to him he probably should have lied.

“Thatcher,” the guy rolls off his tongue. It sounds wrong coming from him, scuzzy. There’s something around his eyes that makes Thatcher itch a little. “I’m Sean.”

Thatcher smiles tightly in response before turning away from him. His ears are burning. He leans heavy into the pole as the train rolls into Boylston. A few people get off, but enough to balance out the influx of new passengers. More searing red, more curled lips. The crowd presses in tighter, and when Sean speaks next, Thatcher can feel it at the back of his neck. 

“So, Thatcher, you think you can just stroll into our city? Walk around like you own it?”

Claustrophobia isn’t something that’s really bothered Thatcher before, but right then, his stomach started clenching. He can feel sweat condensing on his forehead; the Canada Goose may have been overkill, but, whatever, he’s Californian, he needs the protection. “Well, we keep winning, so I’m going to have to say yes,” he says, still facing forward. 

Thatcher learns very quickly that Sean isn’t this size on accident.

Sean grips his shoulder, hard, and slams him into the side of the car. “You fucking bitch,” Sean hisses, and a second later the train jerks into motion. It’s an old one, with a reckless driver, and the only thing really keeping Thatcher up is Sean. 

God, he has to be  _ strong _ .

Thatcher flails to get his hand on the bar again. Sean follows him closely, wrapping a hand around his on the bar and saying into his ear, “I promise, Jesus really isn’t going to love you anymore when I’m done with you. I can  _ promise _ you that.”

Sean’s other hand grips Thatcher’s face, squeezes it, slaps him a few times before digging his fingers in and rubbing against Thatcher’s teeth through his clamped shut mouth. It wraps around Thatcher’s neck, squeezes once, before unzipping his coat. Sean’s arm is warm, solid, when it locks around his neck, and that’s how they stay during the Arlington stop. 

The sudden jolts, the harsh metal; it’s starting to send numbing zings through his hips, and that scares him more than anything else. He can’t afford to get hurt again, he  _ cannot.  _ And Sean’s strong, and fucking crazy, and —

When the train starts rolling again, Sean’s hand slides through the neck of his jersey. His hands are sturdy, long, but surprisingly soft. There’s more people in here than Thatcher thinks should be strictly allowed. Sean’s pressed up against his back, and Thatcher doesn’t have an inch to move in. 

His eyes dart around, panicked, disbelieving, until they lock onto the girl sitting across from where he’s standing. She looks at him, steady, and Thatcher doesn’t know what he was expecting, but any hope left sizzles out when she rolls her eyes and leans into her friend, whispering into her ear. The other girl glances up, then laughs. Thatcher doesn’t even notice how mean her eyes look until they go past him, to  _ Sean _ , and soften. She smiles so sweetly for him.

Thatcher jerks his head down when their phones come out.

“Come on, you were so proud earlier,” Sean croons. His hand is over Thatcher’s heart, groping at his chest. He can’t help but gasp and try to curl in on himself when Sean tweaks his nipple, hard.  “Aw, is that all it takes? Someone playing with your tits a little? The nuns don’t support  _ self abuse, _ is that what’s got you all worked up? Don’t worry, I’ll give you something to look back on next time you’re all hot and bothered.” Sean’s movements are rough, frantic, rushed. Although that makes sense; there’s, what, five stops left until he leaves? Thatcher thinks it’s five. 

Thatcher’s hand is damp when Sean finally pulls his left hand away. It’s too hot, between the crowd, the jacket, the fear, Sean pressed up against his back. 

Sean hikes up Thatcher’s coat, tucks that hand under Thatcher’s jersey, pinkie under the hem of his jeans, and grips his hip. Thatcher didn’t think it was possible for him to get closer, but he can and he does, and now Thatcher can feel Sean’s hard dick against his ass.

Thatcher’s heart is practically bruising the inside of his chest.

“You ever been fucked before, princess?” Sean asks, already pulling Thatcher’s pants down, hand sliding against the exposed skin, tugging Thatcher’s dick before going back to squeezing at the softness of his thighs. The hand still wrapped around his neck strokes him, casually. Sean’s not even bothering to whisper. Can’t, really, around how loud the train and everyone in it is. “You got a great ass for it. ‘Course, it feels like you already knew that.” 

It’s the adrenaline, Thatcher knows. Straight adrenaline. Doesn’t really lessen the shame of having his hard cock out on a crowded train filled with people who are already disgusted by him. How many people can see him right now? How many are looking? How many  _ care? _

Thatcher can only imagine how he looks. Face burning, breathing shallow, dick curving up. 

“Any other situation, baby, and I’d take such good care of you. I’d rail your pretty ass until you really couldn’t keep those legs of yours under you. But you go to the wrong fucking school and you’re in the wrong fuck place, so we’ll just have to make do.” His hand leaves Thatcher’s dick, and he can feel Sean readjusting. 

The crowd thins a little at Copley, but not by much, and mostly of the unaffiliated.

Sean’s hand returns to palm Thatcher’s ass, spreading him open. Something hard, velvety soft grinds against his hole a second later. Thatcher jerks, squirms, but there’s nowhere for him to go.

“Fuck, yeah,” Sean grunts. The hand on Thatcher’s throat tightens, but he’s not sure if it’s an involuntary reflex or a reminder. “Come on, close your legs, slut.” Thatcher hadn’t been able to go far anyway, with his briefs and skinny jeans still wrapped around high on his thighs, but Sean still goads him to squeeze them together.

When Sean slides into the slick space between Thatcher’s thighs, it feels a lot more like fucking than Thatcher would have imagined. The sensation of Sean pressed against his back, him breathing damp and heavy at Thatcher’s nape, Sean’s hips thrusting in that undeniable rhythm, arms wrapped around him in an echo of intimacy, the feeling of Sean’s cock nudging Thatcher’s balls. It’s so much closer than he would’ve thought. 

Thinner, still, at Kenmore. It’s almost worst, this way. At least before bodies were blocking line of sight. Anyone in the train could see them now, could tell exactly what they’re doing.

Thatcher bites his lip bloody, trying not to make a sound.

When the train pulls into Boston University East, Thatcher forces out, “Shouldn’t you be getting off?” 

“I am,” Sean huffs, laughing, and Thatcher hates himself for setting himself up like that. “And I’m not a fucking freshman.”

After pulling out of BU West, Sean’s rhythm stutters. He moans load, showboaty, and after a few slapping pumps, Thatcher can feel his come splatter between his thighs.

The grip around his waist loosens, and Sean spits thickly into his hand before and he wraps it back around Thatcher’s dick. “Come on,” he groans into Thatcher’s ear. “You already can’t wear white on your wedding day, might as well make it worth it.”

Thatcher has never felt more embarrassed before in his life. He feels raw, oversensitive—

He could come. By St. Paul Street, the car is practically empty, and the way Sean’s hand is working him over is making his hips twitch. Thatcher doesn’t know what to do, what would make this better. He tries to distance himself, to just let it happen. He’s so close, God, honestly.

Thatcher sees Sean thumb the yellow stripe on the wall, but its meaning doesn’t register until the train rolls to a stop. Sean lets go of Thatcher’s dick and dips back between his legs. His hand comes off smeared white, and he wipes his come off on the front of Thatcher’s jersey.

The conductor announces Pleasant Street, the doors open, and Sean dismounts. He doesn’t look back. 

The train getting back in motion forces Thatcher to move, counterbalance. It takes a few surreal seconds for him to unwrap his hand from the support beam. He swears he feels his fingers creak. They fumble through pulling his pants back up and zipping his jacket.

Thatcher collapses into one of the empty seats across from him. He looks at one of the maps above the doors, figures he can walk from Chestnut Hill. Ten stops to go.

**Author's Note:**

> I used up all my restraint by not having anyone chant "sexy goalie." You're welcome. You can reach me [here](http://ratbarnaby.tumblr.com), which is definitely 99% real, actual porn, but also has open messaging.


End file.
